


more beautiful because we are doomed

by QuickSilverFox3



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, Established Relationship, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28266651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: If Goodnight was honest, the source of his current problems stemmed from a perfectly average Tuesday, when the rain was pelting down like knives and a man was going to die.
Relationships: Goodnight Robicheaux & Billy Rocks, Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks, Sam Chisolm & Goodnight Robicheaux
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	more beautiful because we are doomed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trams/gifts).



> Secret Santa present for Trams!  
> Prompt: Billy/Goody gang/mob au combined with arranged marriage

If Goodnight was honest, the source of his current problems stemmed from a perfectly average Tuesday, when the rain was pelting down like knives and a man was going to die. 

He was dead from the moment Goodnight lined him up in the scope of his rifle, he just didn’t know it yet. Goodnight didn’t even know his name, focusing instead on the chill of the rain that plastered his hair to his face and ran down to cover the back of his neck like a noose, and on the scent of petrol that rose up to his perch, anything to distract himself from the phantom weight of an owl that couldn’t exist clinging to his shoulders. 

Amelia was a bright splash of colour amidst the moving sea of grey workers—their heads bowed to avoid attracting her eye, mindlessly moving the boxes of smuggled cargo—with her cigarette held high, but not lit. The man was begging. Goodnight could recognise the look of sheer desperation on his face, the frantic tremor of his hands as he threw himself against the wall of Amelia’s non-existent mercy. 

Amelia placed the cigarette in her mouth, and Goodnight readied himself—the entire world narrowing down to the centre of a target trained on the man’s head, and the bite of the trigger against his finger. One breath, then two and—

The blood was a shock against the grey, spilling down the cut in the man’s throat before he dropped to his knees, eyes wide and hands coming up in disbelief. His murderer—not Goodnight, although his heart hammered against his ribs and his ears rang loud enough as if he had killed the man himself—calmly pulled off his cap, dark hair spilling down his back like ink. Goodnight couldn’t look away, the scope pressed like a bruise to his eye, as the man twisted the hair pin back into his hair, securing it firmly. His mouth moved silently behind the mask covering the lower half of his face (a message to their father, Goodnight would learn later) then bowed to Amelia—who Goodnight didn’t need to see to know the flush of rage in her cheeks matched the shade of her dress—then looked up at Goodnight. 

It was either the spark of recognition that kept Goodnight from pulling the trigger once more, or the weight of the man’s gaze on him. He could do nothing but watch as the man pulled the cap back onto his head, satisfaction clear in the tilt of his head, and disappeared back into the teaming mass of bodies, then Goodnight could finally breathe again. 

Amelia raged the entire way home, but it was through her anger that Goodnight finally learned who the man was—the youngest son of the rival family, in a position almost the same as Goodnight found himself in—and he carried it with him like a talisman, never expecting to run into the other man again. 

How wrong he was.

⁂

The bar was quiet, the bell ringing out over his head as Goodnight slipped inside. Rain ran down his face, and he shook his head like a dog. The water still clinging to his eyelashes distorted the world into a warm, golden rainbow, and he blinked it away. The moment his vision was clear, he looked towards the booth at the end, and he couldn’t deny the way his heart skipped a beat at the sight of a large umbrella resting against the side, a puddle forming beneath it. 

“Evening, Goodnight,” Sam called. He rolled his shoulders as he stood up from his perched position behind the door, a herald of bones cracking prefacing the movement, and moved towards the bottles lining the back of the bar. “Are you wanting the usual?”

“Yes please, Sam.” Goodnight propped his elbows on the bar, letting his eyes unfocus—deliberately avoiding his reflection in the mirror that covered the back wall, haggard and closer to a ghost than a man—as his thoughts slowly began to wander. Everything about the bar, from the slight stickiness of the floors no matter how many times Sam made Faraday mop; to the gentle clicking of the jukebox as it cycled idly through the songs, was impossibly different from his home. 

The bar was an oasis: far enough from the ever-present watching eye of his family so Goodnight could enjoy brief moments of anonymity, and in a neutral territory so he could relax ever so slightly. His sisters had their rooms—fiercely guarded like a quartet of hellhounds—and Goodnight had here. 

The first sip of whiskey burned, and Goodnight passed Sam the money, using the moments the man’s back was turned to slip a roll of bills into the tip jar. It wasn’t in Sam nature to accept what Goodnight wanted to give, and the tip jar was easier to place money into—tucking it beneath a couple of crumpled bills to disguise the smooth lines of the rolled notes—than the till Goodnight used to have to aim for, or Sam’s own pockets. 

“Shout when you want a refill,” Sam said, as he always did, and Goodnight grinned in acknowledgement, already moving towards the booth.

“This seat taken?”

The man sitting in the booth glanced up at him, face carefully blank and impassive. His eyes—dark and seeming to stare into Goodnight’s soul—were outlined in gold; the same shade that was painted on his nails. 

“I’m waiting on my boyfriend.”

“Oh, really?” Goodnight leaned closer, one hand braced on the back of the booth. “What’s he like?”

The other laughed, shaking his head. “He’s a better man than I deserve.”

“Billy—”

Billy cut off his protest, utilising Goodnight’s jacket to drag him down into a bruising kiss, hungry and desperate. He tasted like cigarettes and the rich wine he favoured, but underneath that was the tang of iron Goodnight knew only too well.

They broke apart, but barely moved away from each other, Goodnight pressing his forehead to Billy’s as the other man sighed, eyes half-lidded. This close, Goodnight could see the faint shadows beneath his eyes and the lines of weariness running through his shoulders. 

“Rough day at work, cher?” Goodnight slipped into the seat next to Billy, the other man tensing for a moment before sighing, and relaxing into his side. Something frozen in Goodnight’s chest began to thaw at that show of trust, just as it did everytime he met Billy here. 

He was a broken man, and everyone knew it. His family could try and deny it all they wanted, but Goodnight couldn’t lie to himself. Everytime he raised his rifle, and stared down that scope at another dead man or woman, he felt the weight of the owl settle on his shoulders, and he knew one day, he would shatter beneath it’s uncaring presence. 

But with Billy, it was different. Neither had asked—it didn’t seem necessary when they simply fell into place with each other—but their matching broken edges lined up just enough to understand completely. 

Goodnight pressed a kiss to the top of his head, smelling the sandalwood of Billy’s shampoo. 

“Family is a difficult thing,” Billy said finally, reaching up to take Goodnight’s drink. He wrinkled his nose at the taste, but it didn’t stop him from sipping at it.

“Anything I can do to help?” Billy was shaking his head before Goodnight could even finish speaking, some loose strands slipping out from his braid with the motion and he straightened up. Goodnight only had a moment to mourn the loss of the closeness, before he reached out and took Billy’s hand, pressing a kiss on the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I do need a drink,” Billy sighed. He picked the cherry up from his empty glass and popped it in his mouth. Goodnight watched the motion, feeling the tension eke out of him with every moment he spent there, and Billy winked as he pulled the tied cherry stem out, putting it back in the empty glass. 

“How did I get so lucky to have met you?” Goodnight murmured, drawing Billy’s mouth back to his, beard scratching against his skin and chasing the tartness of the cherry. 

Billy drew back with a grin. “You hopeless romantic.”

“How can I not be, when you make any place beautiful?”

Something about the twist of Billy’s mouth made Goodnight pause. He squeezed Billy’s hand, fingers rubbing against the rough skin of his callouses. 

“Sam?” Goodnight leant out of the booth just enough to catch the other man’s eye. “Two refills, please?”

Sam nodded, his attention soon diverted as the bell rang out once more: the signal of the evening crowd drawing in, sheltering from the rain or unwilling to return home just yet. 

“Billy, cher?” 

Billy hummed in acknowledgement, but made no further movement, an almost unnatural stillness falling over him. It felt familiar to Goodnight, the same sort of stillness that came over him when he was perched in a sniper's nest, the respite before the kill. 

“Even if I can’t help, I want to be there for you.”

Billy’s eyes closed, and Goodnight watched the gold around his eyes shimmer as his eyes darted behind the closed lids, a small crease forming between his brows as he thought. His eyes opened quickly, head twitching to the side, and Goodnight felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Faraday’s footprints were deliberately heavy compared to his usual catlike tread, and he was humming something Goodnight could recognise from his youngest older sister’s radio.

“Drinks!” Faraday announced, setting them down. 

“New tattoo, Faraday?” Billy asked, tapping his fingers against his own forearm where—emblazoned on Faraday’s arm and highlighted by his rolled up sleeves and a roll of plastic wrap—sat a new tattoo, blood beading at the edges. 

Faraday flexed with a wink. The symbols—all card suits and numbers—moved with the motion, light distorted through the plastic turning his already pale skin a sickly green. “Don’t worry, Billy. I’m still all functional.”

Billy’s expression didn’t change. “Go back to flirting with the regulars, Faraday. I’m sure they’ll be missing you.”

“I am the gift that keeps giving,” Faraday agreed. “Goodnight.”

“Faraday.”

And with that, the man turned and disappeared out of sight.

Billy sighed, pressing his fingertips to his mouth, before looking down at them with a scowl. He reached across to wrap both hands around one of Goodnight’s, a slight tremor rattling through his fingers which set Goodnight’s nerves alight. Something was wrong. 

“I love you, Goody,” Billy said finally, his voice low enough to just reach Goodnight’s ears. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” It was impossible for Goodnight to not respond, and, by the quirk of Billy’s mouth into a small smile, the other man knew it too. Goodnight shifted to lean his head on Billy’s shoulder, Billy tensing for only a second before he relaxed, leaning to rest his own head on top of Goodnight’s. “What’s wrong?”

Goodnight waited for Billy to answer, hearing the slow, deliberate deep breaths he was taking, the distant echo of his heart. The noise of the bar seemed so distant now, the booth closed off into their own private universe.

“It’ll be fine,” Billy said, his voice flat and Goodnight glanced up to see Billy running the edge of his nail round and round the glass, condensation beading on the side. “Please, Goody, just trust me. It’ll be fine.”

“Okay, cher.” Goodnight wriggled to kiss the soft spot beneath Billy’s jaw, aiming for the small starburst scar that lay there. “I trust you with everything that I am.”

“Wherever you go, I go,” Billy whispered, drawing Goodnight’s hand to his mouth to kiss each of the scars that decorated Goodnight’s knuckles. 

“Wherever you go, I go,” Goodnight echoed. The knot of worry was still there, lingering in the pit of his stomach—ready to pounce in the early hours of the morning and send Goodnight screaming into wakefulness, following a fitful sleep—but he trusted Billy. 

He had to. 

⁂

The sedative wouldn’t fully wear off for another hour. Goodnight knew that only too well but he still spat more bile into the sink, his knuckles turned white from the force of his grip on the sink. 

“Don’t be angry!”

Layla’s voice was clear through the closed and locked door—not that it was a true barrier, given that she was an excellent lockpick, but the illusion of separation was needed—and Goodnight waved his middle finger at it. The brief flare of satisfaction that the gesture gave him was quickly quelled as he stumbled, knocking his knee against the unyielding porcelain. 

He let himself curse, knowing that his mother would disapprove if she could hear him, but he didn’t care.

“Maman wants you out in five,” Amelia called, her voice echoing strangely, and Goodnight knew she likely had her eye pressed to the keyhole, uncaring of the makeup that had nearly made them late—the events of the morning were foggy, but the argument that had raged as he tried, and failed, to escape was not one he would forget.

“Maman can come and get me herself.”

His words prompted more hushed arguments on the other side of the door, but Goodnight ignored them, bracing himself once again on the sink as he stared into the mirror. The bathroom he found himself trapped in was lovely: warm colours and carefully varnished wood, highlighted pristine porcelain; but it was empty of anything he could use. The empty space beneath the sink seemed to almost mock him. 

Goodnight looked awful. He could barely recognise the man in the mirror in front of him, having shied away from looking at his own reflection too closely in the past, scared about what he would see or what he wouldn’t. Even now, that old fear prickled at the base of his skull, a distant ringing in his ears as he avoided looking at the room reflected behind him.

His skin was a pale grey—looking almost like the corpses he feared he would see—and his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. The clothes were still his own: a grey waistcoat soft with age over a dark shirt, dark trousers and his heavy steel-toed boots. His coat was gone, wriggled out of during his final escape attempt, and likely passed to Elisabeth-Marie to keep hold of. He’d noticed the disapproving curl of his mother’s lip that morning, but he had ignored it as he normally did—the slight flicker of satisfaction one of the only things that could permeate through the fog. 

The door creaked as it swung open. His sisters lurked in the doorframe, eyes wide and faces pale as they haloed his mother. Amandine Robicheaux was not a tall woman, but she filled the space, lips pressed tight in anger. 

“You, mon fils chéri,” she began in a voice as sweet as sugar. Goodnight watched as Elisabeth-Marie carefully pulled Charity and Layla away, patting Amelia on the arm before the noise of their heels clicking like gunfire echoed down the hallway. “You will stop this pointless rebellion. You will put your coat back on, drink some water, and go and meet your future husband,  _ gratefully. _ ”

“No.” Goodnight’s hands shook and bile rose in his throat, but he didn’t flinch away from her. The room spun violently, rage filling his head with cotton wool, but he fought against the urge to pass out once more. “I won’t.”

“You will.” She moved into the room, lips curled in a reflexive sneer. “You must. We need this alliance, otherwise Bogue’s gang will kill us all.”

“Why me?” Goodnight hissed. His thoughts kept returning to Billy, the soft way he had looked at him when they had parted last night—a faint flush from the cold across his cheeks and nose, hands buried in Goodnight’s hair as they kissed, grinning against his mouth. The flask Billy had given him, refilled by Sam last night, felt like a stone in his pocket, the only thing keeping him grounded.

Amandine scowled, the expression almost unfamiliar on her normal perfect poker face, but she quickly returned to well-practiced blankness. “You know why.”

Finally, Goodnight cracked, shoulders slumping as he felt the touch of his mother’s hand on his back as the delicate press of the owl’s talons. There was no escaping this meeting, but his thoughts strayed to the large windows as he pulled his coat on and moved down the hall. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

The air was heavy with the rich floral scent emanating from the blooms coiled around the pillars. The heavy doors had barely swung shut behind Goodnight before he was across the room to the windows. Beneath them—held shut by a latch that could be broken if he got desperate enough, and with the sound of footsteps echoing down the other corridor, he was getting there—was a complex mess of climbing plants wrapped around unwieldy ironwork frames. Thorns pressed through the dark leaves and he winced at the thought of having to climb past them. 

Across from him the door creaked open, hushed voices spilling into the room and Goodnight moved, wrenching hard at the window. It swung open, glass shattering as it hit the wall, and the door slammed shut behind him. 

“Sorry, I won’t marry you,” Goodnight called over his shoulder, stepping onto the sill as the wind bit at his skin, “I’m in love with someone else.”

“Oh, really? What’s he like?”

Goodnight froze. His heart felt like it was going to explode from his chest. “He’s a better man than I deserve.”

When he turned, he turned slowly. It felt almost like a dream he would wake up from before he saw who was standing behind him. 

Billy smiled softly when their eyes met, holding a hand out to Goodnight. His nails were still painted gold, chipped at the edges from where he had worried at them, and the traces of gold could still be seen around his eyes. “I would have asked you properly, but I only found out who you were properly last night.”

Goodnight took Billy’s hand—holding his breath but the man was solid beneath his touch, warmth radiating from him—and carefully stepped down from the sill, and into Billy’s embrace. 

“Forgive me? I should have said last night, but I was—”

“Scared I would run?” Goodnight asked, knowing he was right in the way Billy wrinkled his nose, breaking his gaze to study the window behind Goodnight. His hands were steady on Goodnight’s hips, and Goodnight wound his arms across Billy’s shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. “Cher, my love, wherever you go, I go, remember?”

Billy laughed, and drew Goodnight in for a kiss, a weight finally lifted from both of their shoulders.

“One thing,” Goodnight murmured when they parted, barely an inch of space between them as Billy carefully worked his hands onto the small of Goodnight’s back, his hands freezing, “What happened last night to make you agree?”

Despite what Billy had said, Goodnight knew that last night hadn’t been the only time Billy had been carrying the problem by himself. It had silently killed him to see the man he loved struggle while being helpless yet again.

“When the plan was being argued, only formal names were used. Last night, after I left you—which hurt more than anything I could have expected—was the first time  _ your  _ name was used.”

Goodnight laughed, pressing his face into the crook of Billy’s neck to try and muffle his laughter, but that only pulled barely restrained laughing from Billy. 

“So, Mickaël Goodnight Robicheaux, will you marry me?”

“You’re nothing but trouble, Billy Rocks.” Goodnight kissed him, as if he was drowning. “And yes, I will.”


End file.
